Warranties
by Alone Dreaming
Summary: After dying in the aftermath of Devil's Trap, Dean awakens to a very different world with his family missing and the apocalypse pending. AU. Non-slash.
1. Science Fiction Double Feature

_**Warranties**_

**By Alone Dreaming**

**Rating:** T or PG-13 for language and blood

**Disclaimer:** I do not own _Supernatural_. If I did, this would not be under fanfiction.

**Warnings:** Language, gore, and, generally, a little bit of a trippy, continued metaphor that borderlines on crazy.

**Author's Note:** This is an AU picking up directly after Old Yellow Eyes takes a hike at the end of Devil's Trap. I have the intention of continuing it but cannot promise anything. It has a few chapters written but I'm not exactly sure where it's going (except down the unused path of weirdness) and why it's going that way. But, regardless, please enjoy and take mistakes with a grain of salt as I do my own betaing and I tend to miss things. A lot.

* * *

He's bleeding out on the floor and his little brother's shot his dad and his dad's so pissed that he's trying to get up on a busted leg.

Today is not his day.

Something's broken inside of him and he's not just referring to the internal contusions that have him choking blood into a congealing puddle on the floor. No, this is completely mental, uninvolved with his slowly failing body. There's a lever called, 'care' in his brain which has been flicked into the off position and then snapped clear way from the workings to prevent further change. It allows his exhausted body to settle instead of forcing him into concern over their situation or worry for either of his family members. For once in his life, he doesn't give half a shit about what happens. He spent his last bit of his emotional energy begging for his brother not to kill his father; and, maybe, he would've found some sort of replenishment if he hadn't seen the longing in Sam's eyes to pull the trigger.

Or, of course, if he had thought the tears running down his dad's face had anything to do with the fact his eldest son was dying. Because, as of right now, as Sam tries to keep their dad from getting up and his dad curses like the proverbial sailor, he knows that he's dying. There's a chill that's creeping from the wounds in his chest and enveloping the rest of his body, dragging him down to the dusty, blood covered floor. Without any drive to survive, it's all happening rather quickly and distantly; he's watching it like a movie, only missing out on the soda and popcorn. Sam's snarling something at Dad and Dad's snarling back as he tries to get his belt off. 'Tourniquet,' he thinks. 'Good idea.'

A tourniquet won't do him much good. Apparently, it doesn't work as well with ones abdomen as it does with limbs.

_Knock, knock_. On his chest; it says it's his heart and it wants to speak to him about the mistreatment it's suffered. Something about not reading the fine print about a cessation of work should the heart, again, come under severe physical damage. Section seven point twelve, Z, asterisk seventeen, down at the bottom; it says he should've read more closely after the episode with the electrocution. Not to mention, it continues, he should've remembered the whole drain of will. After all, he'd gone through that a few months after Sam had gone to Stanford; didn't he recall the hours of feeling empty, hollow, abused, lost? Couldn't he still feel the loneliness of sitting in an empty room? Didn't he remember the last time, how he said he'd never let it happen again? Didn't he remember that last time, he'd not been injured, and, still, had felt the closing of the walls?

Yes, he recalls all too well as the sticky warmth soaks his shirt. He apologizes to his heart pattering in his chest and to his brain which spasms with emotion and then drops to agonizing nothingness. His fault; he's sorry. Well, sorry's not going to cut it, his heart tells him as it speeds up. Not this time. Too late. Contract signed. He's on his way out. And, this time, he agrees with it. He's screwed up again, and now, it's time to deal with consequences.

"Dean?" Sam's moved out of the warpath as Dad hobbles towards the car. "Shit, Dean."

How long's passed since the Demon fled? Not that he really cares but if he's going to follow this drama to it's end, he needs to have a set sequence of events. His lips refuse to offer the question and he doesn't have any awesome psychic powers to boost his thoughts. Hell, his eyes won't even obey him; they just hover at half mast, twitching to the _knock, knock_of his heart.

"God, you're really bleeding," Sam mutters, his hands hovering close. "Oh shit."

Bad dialogue, he tells his brain which sits drooling next to him. Every now and again, it switches on long enough to tell him he's really, really hurting. But it's too degraded to do much else so it just lolls there, half-conscious, while he stares out at nothingness. It doesn't process that Sam has him under the arms until his stomach comes to read him the riot act. It replaces his heart, which has, begrudgingly, agreed to take his apology and repentance. Hurts, hurts, hurts, it chants. You're gonna puke all down his shirt. Gonna puke. Gonna puke. Gonna puke!

"No, no," Sam corrects. "No, you're gonna be okay. Just try to hang in there. The hospital's really close. Really, really close."

Puke, puke, puke, puke, Stomach mumbles. Puke. And he does, but it's mostly water mixed with bodily fluids. He notes, with the distant interest of an audience member, that there's a lot of blood in there with it. His brain, in a moment of clarity, gives him a blinding flash of pain in his head but then slouches back to it's original position of retardation.

"Shit," Sam repeats. "Shit, shit, shit."

The world tilt-a-whirls like a J. J. Abrams film and things get hard to follow for a moment. There's the cabin roof, then the floor, then the window; he sees salt on the ground and then he's on the ground, with salt in his wounds. Someone's screaming—what the hell? It's not like there's a big fucking monster coming at them from the fog!—while someone else tries to stop the noise. Too much for him, really; he likes a good action flick but honestly, this is just confusing. He has no point of reference, no plot line, nothing but his half-decimated consciousness, a few complaining organs and a nervous system that has shut down; oh, and a set of emotions which have been pulverized so that they are a fine powder, slipping away into the wind.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," Sam whispers and his face is ridiculously close. It's bruised, molted, ugly; the entire one side of it is so swollen that the eye's almost shut. He wants to ask the cameraman to pull back, but there's no one to talk to so he must endure. "It's going to be okay."

Then Sam vanishes in a puff of black smoke, leaving only the ceiling which continues to rotate. Maybe he's become a ceiling fan, attached to the roof, forever forced to stare at it and miss the happenings on the ground. Not much worse than his current existence, he decides, and elbows his brain. His brother's a freak, his dad doesn't care and he's about two inches from meeting whatever's on the other side; he hasn't really prepared himself too well, either, and if Christian standards are accurate, he thinks he may be doing the Cell Block Tango down under.

"Let's try again," Sam's voice whispers in his ear. "You gotta help me out here, Dean. That's it," what does he need to do? Clap? I do believe in faeries, Sam. Just thought I eradicated the last nest of them a few years ago. "One step at a time."

His position changes so he can see out the door. His ears are very particular about what they are letting him hear, introducing static whenever they feel convenient to block out Sam and honing in on the distant, inconsequential noises coming from the woods. There's crickets and woodland creatures whining, competing only with a low purring. He knows that noise almost as well as the criss-cross tap-dance of his heart—_knock, knock, knock—_and loves it more than his pulse. The only thing he can trust to not abandon him makes that sound; it's his baby, his beauty, his gorgeous girl, all worn leather and seamless black paint. He can't see her because his head's tilted up towards the sky, but he knows she's there. He's cheering her on, throwing insults at the other characters on screen, because she's the sex appeal and the hero.

His mind dribbles a bit.

Someone else is nearby. He knows it, suddenly, without sensing it physically. Sam, who's lingering, supporting, dragging his camera along, doesn't know but he can tell. The creepy, foreshadow music has begun and if any little girls sat with him in the audience, they would be screaming their asses off.

"Goddamn it, Sam," the other person snarls.

Sam, off-screen. "Just get in the fucking car, Dad. We don't have time for this!"

Yeah, right, you don't! He cheers on Sam, momentarily, until the view changes to the Impala's roof. Because, the moment his body comes in contact with the leather seats and his head props up against a warm, soft, moving surface, his brain kicks into overdrive. It shoots up, spazzes out, and runs tight circles around the nearest illusory table, screaming about wild monkeys and disco and orange M&Ms. It bounces into walls, jolting his whole body from his head to his toes, blurring and blackening his vision until he's mixing up darkness with fading light. His stomach stomps its foot in aggravation and his old ticker has come back to the door, its glasses pushed up on its geeky lawyer nose. Sir, it says grimly, if you do not get your animal under control, we will have to ask you to vacate the premises. But I thought I already was on the way out, he replies. How can it hurt?

"Easy, son," the demon says. "Easy." And then, it growls at Sam but he cannot understand it through the static.

And Sam, whatever his reply, clearly does not notice that it's back like he has. But maybe, Sam can't hear the doom music ringing through the car. He's like the skinny-dipping chick from _Jaws_, unaware that the big, friggin' shark is about to tear him to shreds. No matter how much Dean shouts at the screen, it won't save Sam.

And what's funny, funny enough that he laughs, is he doesn't care. At all. He just wants popcorn so he can munch a bit.

"I've got you, Dean," it whispers in a parody of his father's voice. "Just hang in there. Look at me, boy. I need you to look at me."

He closes his eyes instead, not wanting to see the loathing in the yellow irises, not wanting this movie to go from thriller to alien invasion. Already, he's getting a mixture between _The Exorcist_ and _Body Snatchers_, his dad already taken over, his brother a close second and him viewing it all through the looking glass. Something wraps securely around his face—he can almost feel it—and fingers try to pry open his lids. He catches a glimpse of the ceiling of the Impala, then darkness, a moment of its face (is he wrong to think it may be concerned?), then the inside of his head, the shadows of headlights and other cars, then, nothing.

_Knock, knock_, His heart's impatient during intermission while his brain has curled up in the corner, twitching occasionally, but no longer frantically tearing the walls. _Knock, knock_. It shoves it's glasses up it's nose and tells him if it had known the show would be so long, it would not have had him watch it. After all, he needs to leave, and it would not be fair for him to leave half-way through it, but it'll force him if this takes much longer. He sighs, gives it the finger and then, it's back.

"What the hell—John?"

He's viewing the Impala, her backseat, his face pressed against leather. The demon's gone, Sam's gone and he's alone, waiting for something to happen. Poor way to open act two, he criticizes, unless something's about to jump out and cause a ruckus. As though directly responding to him, the door opens and voices follow.

"Shit, John, he needs a hospital." Rumble, rumble. "Goddamn it, I am a doctor, not a miracle worker. The boy's going to die unless you get him to a—"

Sam's puppy dog, Frankenstein face comes into view and the Impala vanishes. There's the sky, cloudless, starry; good night for a salt and burn, he thinks dreamily. And it's a bit like a dream, because he can't hear anything clearly anymore. It's all faded into a distant mumbling as he drifts about in the night, trying to touch the moon. He can pick out constellations—mostly, because of some mythology he read up on when self-hunting—and can be awed by how big it all is. For a moment, all the complaints stop, all that's left is millions of stars, the sky and him.

It all comes to a sudden, screeching, gasping halt; he can feel something solid underneath him and the camera's gone blurry. Bad job, he shouts, I want my money back. He was promised so much better when he bought in—where the hell is the warranty for it? If he was Sam, he would've filed it away so he could find it later and insist on receiving compensation for a bad product. Sam always did stupid shit like that, from the time they were little. He remembers one Christmas, after his new tape player puttered out two days after he got it, Sam brought out the warranty and marched down to get a new one. He was five.

Suddenly, he wants to see Sam's goofy face again, wishes the camera would clear so that he could tell Sam not to worry about demanding a replacement. But the movie screen's a greyish white, fading to black and his ears are full of cotton. It must've ended while he wasn't looking, he decides. He missed the last moment. His heart's picking up its suitcase and moving towards the exit marked in glowing red letters, his mind's turned into a puddle on the ground, and his stomach has deflated like a balloon. In turn, he drops down, heavy, exhausted and uncaring.

"There's not even any M&Ms," he mumbles.

And the theatre vanishes.


	2. One Fish, Two Fish, Red Fish, Blue Fish

**For all disclaimers, warnings, etc, please see chapter one. Thank you for the reviews and alerts. Here's some more!**

It reminds him of the dingy hotel rooms he's lived in most of his life. Textures, smells, sights; it all fits in with stain spotted comforters and grime slick carpeting. He can feel the rough sheets rubbing against his skin and smell cigarettes, fungus laden food and moldy bathrooms. There's nostalgia here, memories of sitting up late at night with Sam, waiting for Dad to get home and seeing if the bunny ears on the TV would pick up anything but Spanish soaps. There's good times, bad times, funny times, sad times; one fish, two fish, red fish, blue fish, his brain interrupts, slopping onto one of the nonexistent pillows. I have a fish I like to hold? And now my story is all told. My foot is cold.

It takes that phrase for him to realize that he's not dead.

Sometime in the past, he thought he'd perished because the lights had gone out and the world had become a nightmarish, POV movie starring his family. He thought that as the film ran out, so had he, that the two had been dependent; he'd needed it, it'd needed him. But now, he's fairly aware of being alive, of being somewhere that's in his own head but away from the movie screen of doom. The hotel that he can see—or, maybe, he's not seeing anything—contains nothing of the stars or the Impala or Demon Dad or Frankenstein Sam. It's just his usual fare of cheap furniture and cracked walls. His brain drips from the pillow onto the ground and slurps its own fluids, his heart reads the newspaper at a card table, and his stomach's nowhere to be found but he has the sinking suspicion that it's misbehaving.

And, at the same time as he perceives all of this, he can tell that he actually IS somewhere that has tattered striped wall-paper and dust covered lace curtains. But it's a second thought to everything else, a distant, hazy perception dotted with uncertainty and the muzziness of painkillers. When he focuses too hard on it, gets too curious about what's beyond the walls his hotel room, everything spins and goes technicolor; psychedelic dude, his stomach drawls as it reenters his life with a slam of the door. Now, if you excuse me, I need to empty my contents on the floor.

And in that place just beyond where he is, he knows he's screwed up. Only an idiot would miss that the thing next to his bed isn't just a hatstand, but a hastily rigged IV pole; baseball cap, saline, fedora, blood and so on. Oh, and he thinks—well, when his brain sits up and does something other than pass gas and gurgle—that his Dad may be sitting on the cot at the foot of his bed staring at him. Dad only does when worried and Dad's only been worried about twice—ever. Once was when he let him down, let that witch get to Sammy and the other was when Sammy went to college; as he counts those to make sure he's right, he's unsurprised that neither of them include concern for him.

Because that Demon was right, he tells his heart which has taken up the crossword puzzle. He pulls up his own folding chair and watches as it fills in each row without issue. His father has always loved Sammy best, deep down; even his mother loved Sammy more. His heart nods to this assessment, reminding him of the time that he, while holding Sammy, fell off the couch. He hit his head on the table, saw black spots and red lines. Sammy bounced onto the floor, mostly landing on one of the throw pillows. The two of them lay there, dazed for all of two seconds before both started to shriek. He had a bump and a tiny cut; Sammy had a jostle.

And who did your mother comfort? His heart inquires, answering twenty three down—the red headed stepchild—with ease before pointing its pen at him. It's a completely rhetorical question which has him turning to the blurry windows where his stomach's swaying back and forth. Cheers, it calls to him, pouring down a bottle of something. You're a fuck up, high-school drop out who thought he could depend on people. Here's to that. Oh, by the way, your fly's down.

When he looks, he's not staring at his jean clad legs or at fugly carpeting, but at the grey blankets which rest just below his navel in the other place. His belly's laced up like a shoe, covered in white patchy material. S'not good, he says to himself and maybe aloud because his Dad—no, the demon?—stirs a bit in its sleep. He stills, afraid to wake it, afraid to think that he'll have to butch up and do in his dad, afraid that he may not be able to move at all, afraid that he won't be able to stop it from going through the doorway on the far wall and killing everyone in the house like it killed his mom. He needs his knife so he can at least pin it in its meat suit and call for help before it gets to someone important like Sammy. There's nothing within reach and even that does not matter because his arm's not moving to check if he's stowed something under the pillow. He twitches his left pointer finger, but that's it. The rest of him is heavy, dead and a complete inhibitor to his movement.

It sits up suddenly, turning to him, eyes looking just like his Dad's with no yellow, no glint of evil. A part of him wants to believe that this proves that the thing before him really is his Dad, sitting by his bedside, waiting for him to "not leave him" in the words of those horrible TV shows, but the dark side, the side that cynically plays out scenarios using logic and facts, reminds him that his Dad has never, ever done that for him. The most care and concern his Dad ever showed him was an arm squeeze one night when he sat in one of Bobby's armchairs, so drunk he couldn't tell the difference between the floor and the ceiling. He'd just shot a little girl who'd been bitten by a werewolf.

"I'll call you with a job," Dad said before walking out the door. And he did. They never spoke about any of it.

The thing moves to the side of the bed, it's body surrounded by the items on the hatstand, making it look surreal. "Hey, Dean, you hear me, son?"

Yep, his stomach answers, bringing him back to the hotel room. Awake, logical, hearing and, well, a little bit unstable. It upchucks—no, he upchucks—but can't seem to care. His heart's finished the New York Times crossword, in full, Sunday edition, and is moving on to read the financial section. He's skimming the back page with latent interest, the demon suddenly a distant issue. Unlike his Dad, who hunts for the singular goal of bringing that demon down, he hunts because he enjoys it. It feels right when he has a shotgun full of rock salt in his hands. No one can say he isn't devastated, still, about what happened to his mom but he doesn't have the single-minded drive that Dad has to bring it down. It's a side job, to happen sometime, while the rawhead in the paper or the ghost on the news is the forefront.

The door to the room opens, slapping the wall with a thump. He starts, standing up, searching for something to defend himself with only to find he's sitting down again. His legs have locked into a perfect 90 degree angle and his arms are bound to his sides. His heart, stomach and brain have disappeared, leaving him alone with the table, the chair and a deck of cards. The person in the door enters, closing it behind him.

"I pictured you as a sunny beaches and hot babes type of guy, Dean," he says, marching over to the table. He's a thin man with baby fine features and a shit-eating grin.

His lips move. "I don't do shorts and salt water gives me a rash. Not to mention, there was this chick in Tampa who turned me off on the long walks with the setting sun crap."

The man steeples his fingers. "Perhaps you should give it a chance."

"Nah, everything once but nothing that nasty twice," he says sagely. "Life's too short."

"I suppose hangovers don't count?"

"Take the good with the bad, I've heard." Then he braces himself. "Now, get the fuck out of my head, you son of a bitch."

His words don't do a thing except cause the man to raise his eyebrows. "Hostile words considering I am only here to help."

"Yeah, I've seen the kind of help your type likes," he snarls.

The man's eyebrows would disappear into his hairline if they went any higher. "My type?" He leans a bit over the table. "And tell me, Dean, what type is my type?"

He prepares to tell this Demon where the fuck to shove the therapist question bullshit when he notices, for the first time, that the eyes he's looking at aren't yellow or black. In fact, they are pure blue and strong but not malevolent in the least. He snaps his mouth shut for the moment and watches as the man begins to deal out cards.

"Do you know how to play rummy?" he inquires to Dean's silence.

"What the hell are you?" he replies, stiffly.

The man picks up his cards, fanning them in his hands. "You certainly aren't polite."

"What," he emphasizes the word, annoyed that he's picking up the cards even though he doesn't want to, "are. you?"

"The only thing between you and death for the moment," the man tells him, discarding the first card. "Though, I find in respectable company it is normal for a person to request someone's name before demanding what they are."

He grits his teeth. "Who are you then?"

"You may call me Michael," the man smiles.

"Well, it's a damn pleasure." He glowers at his cards. "Now, will you get out of my head?"

Michael stacks his cards neatly in one palm. "All in good time. It's your turn."

"No," he snaps. He hates this lack of control, this feeling that someone else is controlling his body.

"No?" Michael echoes. "Stubborn, I see." He puts the hand down.

"I don't care what you are," he says. "And I don't care what help you think you can give me. I want you out of my body. Now. Or I swear to God—"

Michael laughs, full, rich, ringing; it startles him. "God? Tell me, what do you know of God, Dean Winchester?" But he stands all the same. "As you have requested my departure, I shall leave. We'll have time to speak again." He pauses in his traipse towards the door. "You'll listen to me soon enough."

"Never," he growls. "Out."

And Michael vanishes with the cards and the paralysis. Unfortunately, all the air in the room seems to sweep out with him. It becomes very, very hard to fill his lungs with anything other than themselves which is only somewhat irksome; like in dreamland, while underwater, he doesn't feel the pressing urge to draw in more air, only the oddness that he cannot. He finds a frown creasing his face as his vision flickers between the hotel and the actual room, between emptiness and frightened faces, between purgatory and hell. Distantly, he can feel someone touching his forehead, his cheeks and parting his lips so that they can—

And he takes in a breath. Lets it out. Drips it over his tongue and through his open mouth, savoring the rushing sensation of air. Someone, somewhere, chokes on a sob and he's vaguely aware of lips touching his forehead. But his eyes can't see beyond the empty room with its closed door and shuttered windows. He wants to stand up, to throw things open, to look out into the world to see who's upset and why. But Michael's departure hasn't fixed the heaviness in his body; in fact, he thinks it may have made it worse. He could just close his eyes right now and not worry about any of it.

He does.


	3. I Hate Procedural Cop Shows

**For all notes, warnings, etc. please refer to chapter one. Thank you for the reviews. Hopefully, this is a little more solid than the first two chapters. The next chapter will explain things a bit. Promise.

* * *

**

He wakes up in a box that fits his person almost exactly and knows what happened instantly.

He's been buried alive.

It's been one of his worst nightmares since the first time he helped his dad dig up a half-decayed corpse and stared into the coffin at the rotting clothes and dried out hair. He dreams about being on the other side, trapped in that tiny little space, waiting to be liberated; sometimes, he still wakes up gasping and paces the hotel room just to make sure that the walls aren't two inches from him on either side. If that doesn't work, he slinks out the door to the Impala and sits against her hood, engine on, just to counteract the cold panic seeping into his system.

No such comfort right now.

His fingers splay against the ceiling which hovers inches from his face and when he stretches his legs, his toes—shoeless—tap the end of the coffin. His squirming informs him that the sides of the box are just short of his shoulders while his head tilts back and forth on a lumpy, moldy pillow. It smells like death in here, clingy and stomach churning; his innards clench against it but he doesn't dare gag. Vomit would only increase the stench and make the experience worse than it already is. It's difficult to keep himself even remotely together in the pitch black of his own death house where the air's slowly leaching from his body as oxygen converts to carbon dioxide. His brain's running through a million different questions to keep him from handling the situation logically.

He tears at the wood. Pain erupts as he pulls off nails and shatters skin but this doesn't stop him, only increases his need to be out of here, away from whatever is putrefying with him. He pictures those crime dramas, which he has always hated, where the victim lies trapped for days, sometimes dying, sometimes not. Whenever those episodes came on, Sam watched with keen interest, while he fled to a different part of the room or out of it. He couldn't—can't—stand to see it, to think about it. Even now, his hearing is enveloped by his own haggard breathing and the throbbing of his pulse, so that when something thumps loudly against the roof of the coffin, he lets out a scream that would do little girls proud. All of his motions stop, except for his heart, as he stares blindly at the roof, waiting for it to happen again. It does, several seconds later, followed by a faster, louder one. Suddenly, light pours in from the cracks around the edge of his prison as someone drags off the lid of the coffin.

"Bobby, he smells pretty—holy shit," this voice is not familiar. "Holy fucking shit."

And the next one is. "I'll be damned. Is he?"

The lid's all the way off and the light blinds him but he drags himself to his feet immediately. It doesn't matter that his legs melt or that he can't get his equilibrium. He needs out of this hole, into the safety of open air. His body flops against someone who catches him haphazardly and pins him.

"Holy shit," and then, to him. "Calm down, you bastard. I said, calm down!" His struggles cease, like a terrified rabbit waiting for the moment to escape the snare. Tears stream down his face from the dim light of the moon.

"Hey, Dean," the familiar voice calls from somewhere up above. "It's all right. It's Bobby Singer. Remember me?"

How could he forget? He spent a lot of his childhood at Bobby's dirty old house, scratching his Rottweilers behind the ears and fiddling with broken down cars. Not to mention the recent incident with a demon possessed girl whose body Bobby conveniently took care of; Bobby's a hard guy to forget. Squinting, he tries to look beyond the hole so he can confirm it's Bobby but the world's dissolved into light and shadow. There's definitely something lurking up there but he's not a dumb enough to assume it's friendly.

"He's shocky, Bobby," the person holding him rumbles. "Don't think he knows where he is."

"Probably better that he doesn't." One of the shadows moves closer. "Boost him up to me."

He strikes.

His fist catches whoever's holding him in under the jaw and his knee hits a groin with a satisfying oomph. The person holding him jerks away while he trips and staggers like a drunken ballerina towards the black walls of his grave. His hands hit mud—cold and wet—and slip as he tries to drag himself out. Whatever's over him reaches down and snags the back of his shirt which tears away like tissue paper. He takes a handful of the mud and flings it at this person who's imitating Bobby and tries to scale the six feet to freedom once more only to have the other creature grab him again.

"Sorry to do this to you," it says with a touch of strain in its voice. Something hits his temple hard enough to put him into a paralytic daze but light enough to keep him conscious. His crappy vision swirls as he's lifted and shoved and twisted out of his prison. Soft, sweet smelling grass touches his face in the end while a hand presses on his back, against his spine. He's flipped over by that same hand, searched all over as though he's about to be cuffed, and then the hand withdraws.

"Goddamn, kid," Bobby—or not Bobby—says softly above him. "And here I thought it was all a lie."

The unfamiliar person speaks, "I can't believe it myself. I mean—all this time. I fucking pronounced him—"

"I know. Here, get him on the left."

He lets them drag his ass all the way to the car, putting his energy on getting his vision to focus properly. Time does wonders; with each passing second, he's gaining color to go with his shapes. Then lines follow, keeping the different shades from seeping into each other. He recognizes the tires of a car, the shiny silver rims surrounded by black rubber. When he's leaned up against it, he raises his head and can take in Bobby who's moving around the back to pop the trunk and nameless helper number one who's standing in front of him. His vision still leaves something to be desired but he cannot pinpoint what's wrong.

"You gonna hit me again?" the man asks, eyebrows up.

He chokes out a sob as an answer.

The man winces. "I'll take that as a no."

Bobby reappears faster than a speeding bullet, stepping between them like Superman. He can picture a little red cape floating out, despite the lack of wind, behind Bobby's back, his hands on his hips. He tries to avoid the spandex but it's the next thing in the equation. Then Bobby's hand's on his shoulder. "It's gonna be all right, boy. Don't mind that idjit. He's a dick but he's a good dick."

There are questions to ask, things to wonder, items to take care of. He should be trying to say 'Christo' to make sure this is Bobby or getting the heck out of dodge until he has holy water and rock salt. Part of him is screaming to know where Sam and Dad have gotten to while the other doesn't give half a shit still. But he's too frightened and strung out; all he manages to do is let his head drop onto Bobby's shoulder as the tears stream down his face. The worst part is he doesn't know why he's crying, he just is.

"Aw, Christ, kid," Bobby says, maneuvering him away from the door. "You're gonna be okay, ya hear me?" And then, not to him. "Let's get out of here." And then, to him again, "Come on, kid. In the car."

He listens to Bobby because no one's ever been better to him than Bobby has. Unlike his family, Bobby's never promised anything he hasn't done, never pretended to be anything that he wasn't. Sure, he's not all cuddles and folk songs, but he's dependable a person gets. Everything about him stays about the same; even the way he smells as Dean's face presses against his shoulder is as Dean always remembered—bit of booze, oil, sweat. Not precisely pleasant but it's Bobby and, when he gets down to it, Bobby sometimes was a better Dad to him than his Dad ever was.

They help him into the car where he falls down onto the seat and tries to not think at all. It's not his baby he's in, but something else, something that smells new and fresh. He has to curl his legs in order to fit properly across the backseat and even so, his feet press wood paneling on the doors. Somewhere in the front, a lolling robotic voice drones at him to turn left in three point six miles and then take first right. Air conditioning rushes against his arm and left side, causing him to shiver. All of this acts as a distraction but somehow, he's still got the feeling of claustrophobia. Bobby and unknown guy feel barely six inches away as they speak softly in the front.

And, somewhere along the line, he falls asleep.

"So, you're back," Michael says to him. They sit at a card table again.

"What didn't you understand about get the fuck out?" he asks, but it doesn't have much venom behind it.

Michael's playing solitaire, moving a three of diamonds onto four of spades. "I am persistent and hopeful that you'll learn to tolerate me." He looks up. "And I wanted to see what sort of work Castiel did."

"What?"

"Castiel," Michael repeated. "He who brought you back to fight the war. Your new," he pauses, "guardian of sorts. Though," a slight crease on his forehead, "he cannot heal all scars."

He wants to ask what the hell Michael's talking about but follows the man's gaze instead to his arms. Long, puckered lines decorate them, dotted by rough looking circles. His heart starts to speed up again as he drags up the t-shirt to look at his belly and chest. It's a cats-cradle of stripes and circles, criss-cross violence of pink, purple and gray. His hands go to his face but feel nothing except the roughness of stubble and the softness of his bottom eyelids. Then his fingers reach his scalp to find bumpy skin with patches of hair.

Michael's face softens as his distress grows. "Some things even we cannot fix, Dean."

He wakes up screaming, the sounds muffled by Bobby's hand over his mouth. But Bobby looks strange, dressed like a soldier, much older than he remembers him being. He's cut up bad, especially around his chest where the wounds still weep blood. There's a sword at his waist, an actual fucking broadsword, and it's dotted with dark fluids. It shuts him up just long enough for him to look at Bobby's companion, the guy who dragged him out. Then he's shouting once more, struggling against the hands holding him down.

The man next to body is not a man. The closest approximation that he can make through rising panic amounts out to dragon and he knows those are merely a myth. He's human in shape but scaly blue with sharp claws at the end of four fingered hands. His eyes, deep gold have slitted pupils which fill up most of the eyeball, leaving only tiny strands of white. Sharp teeth are visible beneath the lips as he grimaces and smoke comes out in curls from his nose. Chains wrap about his neck, arms and legs, manacles covered in human bones and carnage. Some of the links have been replaced by curled fingers. He's, in a word, terrifying.

And him without a gun. "Fuck, fuck," he whimpers through the fingers. "Bobby. Fuck. He's not human."

"It's all good, Dean," Bobby tells him, not listening. "It's okay."

"But, Bobby," he insists as the thing sticks a syringe in his arm. His words are garbled. "No, no." He can't escape. "No!"

The world tilts to one side, then the other, graying out. The screaming stops, the will escape flees with it. Bobby pulls away his hand, moving it up to rest on his forehead.

"Just a sedative. We'll see how lucid he is when he awakens," the thing says, probably lying.

"Yeah," Bobby murmurs, and then, to him, "You'll feel better with some rest."

Darkness rushes across his vision but his lips still move. "Bobby..."

"What is it?"

He forgets what he wants to say.


	4. Occam's Razor Doesn't Apply to Hunting

**For notes, warnings, ratings, and notes, please refer to Chapter One. Otherwise, thank you much for the reviews and enjoy. I assure you, while this chapter doesn't explain, it's far more solid than the last three. Or, based more in reality, anyway.

* * *

**

At some point, they stole his clothes so when he comes to in the luxurious, over-sized bed, he immediately sees that the scars aren't there. For some reason, despite all the screwed up shit that's happened, it's his first concern. His skin's perfect, downy, soft, smelling strangely like Sammy did when he was very, very little still; not baby-powder and oils but clean and new. He studies his arms, his chest, his legs, everything, and finds that he looks normal—better than normal even. Some of the older scars from hunting accidents and everyday life have vanished as well. Tentatively, he touches his head to find his hair, though a bit overlong, to be fully there.

He drags himself out of bed, vulnerable as hell; no weapons, no clothes; it's not as though he minds being in the buff, it's the circumstances surrounding how it happened and where he is and, oh, the fact that the last thing he saw was a huge ass monster jamming a needle into his arm. His legs feel weak but positively so. It's the sort of weak he associates with getting better, not getting sick, but he tests his movement as he walks to the nearby dresser. A mirror's attached to it and despite the physical assurance that the worst of the scars are gone, he wants to see it for himself.

Nothing; just him, pale, scrawny, but in one piece with a patchy beard and his hair grown down over his ears. He scratches at it, taking himself in, putting this image permanently into his brain to fight against the horrific dream. It'll help, he convinces himself, as he turns to study the room. It'll keep him stable, sane. It'll be something to cling to as he staggers through the tribulations of the day. Strangely, he's already calm, not unconcerned but focused, like he is before a hunt. The worry and the questions have been catalogued in his brain, put into an order of importance. Of course, at the top of the list, comes clothing followed closely by finding a weapon. Then Bobby, he needs Bobby.

The room he stands in is bigger than any house he's lived in since his mom got pinned to the ceiling. Past the canopied bed and dresser sits a sofa and two chairs around an ornate table. There's a window on the far wall which stretches from floor to ceiling and has another seat with throw pillows on it. A closet isn't too far away from it and despite the closed door, he can tell it's the walk in kind that can double as a decently sized room. Next to it, on another side table sits a clock which reads nine oh two and judging by the light pouring in the window, he safely assumes that means AM. A desk lines the far wall, along with a door, and upon the desk, sits a neatly folded pile of clothing.

He staggers over to it, noting the jeans and t-shirt and frowning at the lack of ring and necklace. His fingers touch his neck, finding the familiar pendant gone and he glances at his hands to see that the ring's vanished, too. The necklace irks him, slightly, but everything emotional has dimmed down to a dull simmer he associates with a burnout. He pulls the t-shirt on and the pants, finding them to be a perfect fit. Over the back of the desk chair lies a hoody which he forgoes; hoodies are Sam's thing though he's been known to steal one every once in a while. Right now, he wants a jacket though, preferably his leather one.

He settles for just the jeans, just the shirt and opens the desk drawers once he's fully up. In the first one, he discovers a letter opener which he tucks into his back pocket. The rest have simple office tools, none of them useful and he discards the idea of searching any further in it. Bobby, he decides, patting his rear to assure himself his weapon's still there. Bobby and—

--his stomach growls. Food, he acquiesces, shocked by how hungry he is. He'll need to eat. His fingers close on the door handle and he tugs it open slowly, to avoid any possible creaking. It moves smooth and silent, letting him pass into an elaborate hallway with pictures and carpeting that envelopes his feet. With ease, he skulks towards the stairs and descends as quietly as possible, uncertain of which direction to go once he reaches the bottom floor. In front of him is a hallway, leading towards two large, glass-paned doors which he assumes leads out. To his left is a darkened room and to his right, he hears voices.

He chooses the voices because he wants answers and, thinking with his stomach, he smells something cooking. The food is terrific and the voices are low-key, non-threatening. One of them sounds suspiciously like Bobby but his hand drifts down to the letter opener just in case. Though familiar, the other voice has no name in his memory and he cannot be certain that the individual behind it isn't dangerous. He recalls the images he saw just before he passed out of the monster with the smoke and Bobby with the sword. It tightens his resolve as he steps into the kitchen.

It's a nice but functional place with all the essentials and—judging by the various instruments lying about it—a few less than necessary items. He blinks at the grey marble floor and white walls, feeling displaced. The conversation stops as he steps into the room; both occupants look startled at his sudden appearance. Bobby, who was sitting in a chair at a dark polished table, jerks to his feet and the man—whom he vaguely recognizes from the graveyard—turns abruptly away from the stove.

"Christo?" he offers, looking for someone to wince or go black-eyed. But neither of them do that; the man removes his pan from the hot coils while Bobby closes the gap between himself and Dean. He pulls him into a hug, rough with a few pats on the back to keep it manly.

"Good to see you up, kid," he says as he pulls back. "How're ya feeling?"

Confused, lost and strangely mushroomy, he wants to say. But, instead, he replies, "Violated. You undressed me, old man. Not sure I'm gonna get over that."

A weary grin crosses Bobby's face, "Idjit. Goddamn, I've missed ya."

"I just saw you a week ago or so, at the most, Bobby," he teases. "Getting lonely or something?"

The man, who has transferred the contents of the pan onto a plate, pauses in his movements. "See, Bobby, it's like I said—"

"Shut up," Bobby snaps, and he stares at Dean with features painted in concern. He looks older, much older, than Dean remembers, deeper lines and more grey than color dotting his hair. There's a jagged scar down his temple that Dean doesn't recall from only a week ago—it was a week, wasn't it?—and his clothes fit far looser on his body. When he speaks again, his tone's guarded, "Dean, what do you last remember?"

That's never good, his mind says but he answers anyway, "The cabin. Jim's old cabin in the woods. With Dad and Sam. The demon was there but it flew the coop." He remembers the pain, and Michael and the horror show and then nothing, but doesn't bring that up. He's not sure if any of that is real. The deadened part of him twitches a bit and he adds, "Bobby, where's Sam and Dad?"

"Fuck," is all Bobby says as he sinks down into his chair. "Fuck."

"What's going on?" He adds a command behind it, hoping someone will fill him in. Emotions, otherwise spent, start to well up again. "Bobby, tell me."

The man at the stove carries the plate over to the table and for the first time, he notices that there's already bacon, toast and condiments piled onto it. Two of the places, besides Bobby's, have dishes with milk and orange juice sitting by them. The plate in the man's hand is piled high with eggs and he takes his seat after he's placed it. Golden eyes, strangely reminiscent of the monster from his hallucination, catch his own as the man begins to serve himself.

"Sit," he tells Dean. "Eat. Give Singer a moment."

"No, damn it," anger, he's feeling anger in a distant, dull way, "tell me where my family is. They were hurt—"

The man smears butter on his toast. "As far as we know, they are alive and in one piece. Now, eat and tell me how the eggs are. I can hear your stomach growling from here."

He opens his mouth to argue but snaps it shut as his stomach snarls. Begrudgingly, he slinks over to the table and sits at the open space. There's a carafe with coffee which he takes some of before digging into the available edibles. The eggs are excellent, the toast is decent and the bacon hits the spot. As he munches, he takes in both of the people with him, trying to gauge mood and intention. Mostly, he's certain that the person next to him is Bobby but he knows nothing about Bobby's companion. Bobby sits with his head balanced on his hand while his other squeezes a mug. The man is another story. Wholly unbothered by whatever's on Bobby's mind, he eats his food and stares at the New York Times. Every now and again, he glances over at Bobby but doesn't change his expression. Bland, Dean applies, boring.

His plate clean and coffee finished, he tries once more, "Bobby, what's going on?"

"You sure the last thing you remember is the cabin, Dean?" Bobby asks, lowly. "Nothing else after?"

He wonders if he should mention Michael. "Nothing. Except waking up in…" He trails off. "Why?"

"Because, kid," Bobby's voice is heavy, "that was nearly three years ago."

He wants someone to leap out and shout, just kidding. He waits for it for several minutes even, wants someone to reassure him that this is one big, practical joke at his expense but it doesn't happen. Bobby rubs at his eyes and their companion continues with the New York Times. The only sounds are the ticking clock on the wall and his heart which is picking up speed.

"How could I lose three years?" he manages.

Bobby sighs. "Because, Dean, three years ago you died."

Silence from everyone because he's trying to process the idea of being dead but then returning. A million questions rush through his head along with another million realizations. The hazy recollections of being buried alive strike him with new meaning. He was the thing rotting down there, supposed to stay forever in the ground. Didn't that make him something that should be hunted? How is he any different than the ghosts that he'd burned a hundred times over beyond the fact that he is lucky enough to have a body?

Along with this came the confusion of how there'd been nothing during those years, that one second he'd been alive and the next he'd been alive again. Heaven, hell, God, Satan, all of it hadn't applied to him. He'd gone into a dreamless sleep, eternal rest, eternal peace; there'd been nothing at all. Was he so bad that heaven wouldn't take him but too good for hell to have any interest? And, if not that, did that mean that for years now, he'd been permanently snuffing the spirits of people? Had he been murdering the supposedly everlasting essence of humans?

More topical issues comingle with these, less contemplative but just as pivotal. Why hadn't his family torched him? This thought sticks out in front of the others, making him feel a little nauseous. When he was twenty, he had a close call with a spirit. Not that he was hurt badly, but there were several moments, while pinned to the wall with a knife inching closer and closer to his heart, that he was certain he would die. After that, he told both Sam and Dad flat out that he needed cremation. He wasn't going to turn into one of those psychos, wasn't going to take the chance that something or someone would try to bend him to their will.

Behind that thought, though, is the how, how did this happen and why and who and—

"Well, shit," is all he can say as he ponders it all. "That sucks."


	5. Disney Doesn't Know Real Fairy Tales

**For all rantings, ratings, ramblings and reasons, please refer to chapter one. Thank you for the reviews, favorites, questions and comments. And more than anything, enjoy. I apologize if there are any tremendous typos as I do self-edit and tend to miss things.**

**

* * *

**

Once upon a time, Dean Winchester wanted to be a fireman. His preschool friend, Johnny Kraig, had an uncle who was one, and one day, he came to the school in a big, red truck. Each of the kids got a chance to touch the shiny sides and hold a hard, yellow hat. The fire fighters watched over them as they climbed the sides and poked at the hose. They even got to watch the ladder go up, up, up into the air. Later that afternoon, Dean and Johnny rode to the fire station in that same truck. They explored the bunks of the firefighters and, much to their disappointment, were not allowed to slide down the pole. Overall, it was quite an adventure, and he went home that night wanting a spotted dog and his own faceguard. Johnny's uncle had the greatest job ever; he got cool toys and he was a hero. He said this to his mother over dinner and she promised him a helmet for Christmas as she tucked him in to bed.

Then Mary died pinned to the ceiling, swallowed up in fire and her own blood. After that, he developed a keen interest in causing flame instead of putting it out. Flame took his mother away from him but flame could put bad things in their places. This helped him find a new passion in the ashes of his failed normalcy. He shirked the fireproof suit for a leather jacket and a cool truck for a retro car. His toys weren't hoses and oxygen masks but guns and lighting fluid. He didn't learn the code of how to treat victims; he learned how to put down targets. Heroics, as he initially saw them, weren't his style anymore. He didn't want the medals or the praise or the spotlight; but he did want to see the smile of gratitude on a mother's face when her child was returned.

Once upon a time, in the year 2009, Dean Winchester wants to climb back into his coffin and go back to sleep because it's easier than processing what's been said to him. Bobby's not offering assurances; he's pulling at his face again as though he can wipe away everything. The man's folding up his newspaper in a careful, practiced manner which spells out 'prat' though Dean can't find the heart to tell him so. His throat's starting to tighten making breathing difficult much less speaking. But somehow, around the ever enlarging lump, he manages to whisper.

"Things that die are supposed to stay dead," he says to them both and to himself. "Because coming back twists shit, Bobby, you know that. I know that. Remember the witch down in Miami? Remember her bringing back all her relatives who died trying to get to the States? How the hell did you think it would be okay to bring me back?"

"Singer isn't to blame for bringing you back, Dean," the man doesn't seem perturbed by the attitude. In fact, he meets Dean's gaze without a second's hesitation. "But God and his—"

Bobby interrupts here. "Jackson, now's not the time—"

"Then when will be, Bobby?" he demands. "You going to mollycoddle this poor bastard all the way through this?"

Bobby bristles. "I damn well will if I think it's necessary."

"You and I both know it's too late for that," Jackson's tone is far calmer than Bobby's tone. "It's begun and there isn't a thing to do but get this kid ready to fight."

"Does anyone give half a shit about whether or not I want to know?" Dean asks. He's standing now too; he doesn't remember getting to his feet. "Because I want to know what the hell is going on here. Bobby, if you didn't bring me back, then who? And why? And what fight? And what the hell is it too late for?" His hands slap the table so hard that the plates rattle. "Goddamn it!" The plates still shake even though he's not pounding and the fork under his left palm starts to glow. Suddenly, his hands are through the table and he staggers to keep his balance.

"Holy shit!" Jackson shouts. "Holy fucking shit."

He lets his gaze flicker between his palms—which look no different than they did seconds ago—and the table—which has gained two neatly spaced hand prints straight through it. The fork lies on the ground, a trampled flower, and the room is increasingly warm. The anger he feels dims as he begins to realize he's glowing like a frigging Christmas tree and there's smoke rising from where his bare feet are touching the tiles. He takes a tentative step back to see that they have left deep indentations in the stones, perfectly shaped to his toes and his arch.

"What the—" He sees Bobby on his feet, despair on his features, his chest torn to shreds and bleeding. He has a scabbard at his waist with a rust colored sword which sports blue sapphires and black diamonds. His hands are bejeweled with rings which have dark stains in their crevices. Jackson has vanished all together, leaving behind the same slobbering beast that he saw before. Scaly, creepy; he crawls into the kitchen and scoops up a butcher's knife, eyes wild and rolling. The kitchen has warped into a mass of lines and shapes and ideas but nothing cohesive like what he has been told reality should be. It's a masterpiece of Dali combined with the influences of Picasso.

Things drip away between his fingers, squirm under his toes. The world wavers and sways as he trips around on the now uneven tiles. His goal is to put as much distance between himself and the table and himself and the dragon. Whatever point best balances is where he shall retreat until the world becomes right again. He's back to three years ago, confused, lost and alone. He trips, gets up, trips again, feels the puddles of marble and smells burning rock.

"Dean," Bobby's voice is nearby. "Dean! Listen to me!"

"Bobby," he whispers. "What the hell?"

Bobby doesn't answer him immediately so he looks in his basic direction to see that Bobby's wincing, blood dribbling from his nose and eyes. Tears of blood, "Dean, calm down! You have to calm down."

"What's going on?" Its spoken normal to his hears but Bobby's hands clasp over his ears and he drops to his knees. "Bobby!"

"Dean," Bobby sounds weak. "Stop talkin!"

He doesn't know how. Now that he's started feeling again, the emotions tumble about rough and uncontrolled, like clothes in a dryer, tossing and turning, fighting for attention and recognition. Long, long ago, his control lever snapped into 'Don't give a crap' and broke that way. Now, it's also decided to tilt towards, 'out of control,' which leaves him not caring that he can't keep himself restrained. Or something like that; in truth, he's starting to get scared by what's happening and that's worsening the situation.

"Listen to your friend, Dean Winchester," a deep, gravelly voice whispers behind him. He turns, swaying a bit, to find a tax accountant in a trench coat standing behind him. "You will kill him if you do not."

The shadows of wings hanging from his back do not encourage Dean to trust him but the sudden placement of a hand on his shoulder does. The man becomes the only thing solid in the room while the paint holding the rest of the images together trickles down the walls. The contact suddenly keeps him from flailing, gives him something to brace against as the world tries to run away from him. All the sharp angles and half processed thoughts clear from his mind and his anger, confusion and upset start to dissolve. Everything comes to a pinprick of light at the end of his tunnel and they reach it together, somehow, and step back into reality.

Where Bobby isn't decked out with medieval attire but has blood streaming from his eyes and ears. The monster has vanished again, leaving Jackson behind, heaving for breath. And the man looks the same, except his wings have evaporated and his features have become ordinary. Craggy, overused accountant with blank eyes and a flat expression available for random appearances in rich men's kitchens; please call number at bottom of the ad.

He staggers then falls on his ass, the grooves from his previous movement digging into his tailbone. His ears ring, his vision blurs and he's suddenly so hungry, he thinks he may not have eaten after all. The pit of his stomach gnaws on the bottom of his esophagus, trying to escape out his mouth so it can feed itself. He barely notices that the people in the room are speaking as he scrambles back to his feet. Reaching the table, he grabs a piece of toast and stuffs it into his mouth in an attempt to quail the need. When it doesn't suffice, he tries another and then the left over bacon. The eggs next, without any utensil, but once he's cleared every last crumb, the ache is still there, unquenched.

He reaches for the pitcher of orange juice, only to have his hand stopped. Bobby's there, his face crumbling, "Easy, Dean, give it a second. You don't need nothin' else. Take a seat, all right?"

"I can't have him going ape shit in my house every time he gets angry," Jackson snaps, but not at Bobby and not at him. "He was supposed to know what was going on, Castiel!"

"I can show him the truth. But," Castiel says, "your wards, have, until this point, kept me from him. Was it not agreed that we would have access to him?"

Bobby's restraining his hands from going for the orange juice and coffee but it doesn't prevent him from snarling, "What? Let that bastard into his brain before he can make his own decision? What sort of perversion of freewill is that?"

"Freedom of choice belongs to he who has no knowledge," Castiel counters.

"It isn't freedom if you don't know what you are choosing," Jackson returns and his voice sounds as though he knows a thing or two about that. "Now, either help him control whatever's going on with him or get the fuck out of my house!"

Castiel turns so that he catches Dean's eye. "He will need better supervision than the two of you can provide. I request permission to enter this house when it is necessary."

"Feel free," Jackson's voice holds a sarcastic edge, "just be sure to get through the wards first." His hands are drawing on the table, his fingers bloody. "Now. Get. Out."

And Castiel vanishes.

"We're going to need his help," Bobby sighs, his hands still around Dean's wrists. "He's right, Jackson."

Jackson's hands have cuts on them. He scratches at them, looking where Castiel used to stand. "Yeah, I know. He just pisses me off these days." He shakes his head. "Hasn't been the same since he got blasted. Forgot everything he stood for. I don't trust him anymore."

"Neither do I," Bobby admits. "But he's the closest thing we got to a friend on that end." His fingers loosen on Dean's wrists. "How are ya?"

Dean pulls his wrists free, his stomach still rumbling. "Wh—what?" Was that? Am I? Is going on? Has happened? Did the person mean? So many possible ways to continue it and he cannot figure out which one is most important.

"Singer, I gotta go get those wards up again," Jackson says, brushing his hands together. The blood's peeling away leaving no sign of injury. "Dean must've broken them. Can't take the risk of all heaven closing in. Or hell." There's a silent implication—you know how to take care of him better than I do—behind the words as Jackson leaves the room. He carefully avoids looking at Dean.

"Bobby," Dean manages. "I'm gonna eat my hands if I don't get something else."

"Give it a moment," Bobby urges. "It'll fade some then."

He chews his tongue, feeling it grow raw within seconds. "Bobby… What the hell's happened?"

"The Apocalypse. And I'm sorry you've been dragged into the middle of it."


	6. Thinking With the Upstairs Brain

**Sorry for the delay. Holidays caught up with me and as soon as they ended, I fell seriously ill. I recovered, and now, am sick again (far less seriously), leaving me with little energy. However, here is another chapter. And, hopefully, updates will be rapid now. Thanks for the reviews. Please note this is self-beta'd.

* * *

**No one ever labeled him smart or clever because Sam always stood out in that field. He walked earlier, talked earlier, read earlier, did complex mathematics better and, generally, one upped his older brother in everything except hunting. However, that did not change the fact that Dean happened to be a bit smarter than the average bear. So, as Bobby attempts to stop him, he uses good reflexes and some measure of quick wit to bite his captor and make his way to the fridge. Ignoring Bobby's cursing and protests, he proceeds to eat through the entire contents, including the condiments and greenish-white-patch-of-something, and then promptly falls asleep.

"The liver would've been better with a nice Chianti," he mumbles as he slumps down the cabinets and onto the tile.

But the true intelligence comes in after his eyes slide shut and he's back in the hotel room, at the fold up table. It actually feels like home now, and he slides low in the chair so he can toss his feet up on the table. This is a place to think, to work things out, and, hopefully, to get some answers. Maybe the man named Michael will tell him exactly what the hell Bobby meant by the Apocolypse, or where his family is, or why he's back alive, or what the fuck's going on with his sudden raging superhero powers. Yeah, he's bright in his own right, but he hasn't turned on his thinker in years because his fists work a lot better and, no, he'll never tell Sam this in a million years, when he thinks too hard, sometimes, just a little, he thinks Sam might be right about Dad, and the Demon, and all that bullshit.

Michael doesn't show up so he tilts the chair back on two legs and stares at the ceiling. Emotional disconnect is easy here; nothing obligates him to get angry or upset or happy or anything for any reason. All that's expected of him is to sit, to exist; any other action is his own obligation. So, he collects what he knows in random piles—only Sam does lists while Dad just throws things on walls and draws lines like a conspiracy theorist—labeled important, maybe important, and only God knows. In the end, he's come to no new facts.

The world's ending, there's some sort of fight going on, Heaven's involved and he's going to have to fight. Oh, and, now, he's Dean-man, superhero extraordinaire, with matter melting madness and a voice that kills. It plays into one of Sam's youngest fantasies, where Dean trumped Batman, Superman and the Green Lantern.

"Son of a bitch," he mutters under his breath, letting the chair slam onto the ground. Then he nearly falls out of it because someone's appeared while he wasn't paying attention.

"You must tell Bobby and Jackson to lower the barriers," Castiel the accountant tells him.

He raises an eyebrow and says nothing. In the processing, he'd thrown this stranger into his own little niche between "maybe important" and "only God fucking knows." Now faced with him again, he fumbles for something witty to reply with but cannot.

"Dean Winchester," there's almost urgency in that voice, "it is imperative that they do not keep me out."

"Hate to break it to you, but they don't like you very much," he says, slowly. "Something about you not being trustworthy or whatever. And, at this point, I don't think there's a damn thing I can do to change their minds."

Castiel stands up and starts to pace; except it's not the frantic bursts of motion he normally associates with pacing. It's slow, calculated and controlled, like nearly everything he's seen this man—no, he doesn't actually think he's a man now—do. There's a strange swishing noise, like feathers in a breeze, as he moves.

"This is not going according to plan," Castiel says, finally.

"Sorry to hear that," Dean replies. "Mind telling me what the fuck the plan is?"

Castiel pauses and really looks at him; the whole nine yards of eye catching and locking which makes him extremely uncomfortable. "The plan to save humanity, Dean, and the world; have they not told you?"

He traces a finger along the table, carefully breaking away and thinking of something nice, like a double barrel full of salt shells. "I'm not sure if you've noticed, Cas—you don't mind if I call you, Cas, do you?—but I'm about as aware of stuff as a mushroom. You know, kept in the dark and fed crap twenty four seven. All of this is new to me. Last thing I remember is being in load of pain. So, why don't you tell me what the hell's going on and I'll decide whether or not I want to help you?"

Strangely, he wants to trust Castiel. He knows this because he wouldn't've just blurted all of it out if he didn't feel a bond with this man-not-man. His instinct is to tell him everything, listen to everything he's told in return and act upon Castiel's suggestions. Castiel simply has that sort of vibe around him in his no-nonsense face and his worn appearance; he's a veteran, he's a hard worker and he's incredibly earnest. Oh, and he stopped Dean from pulling an atomic bomb moment in the kitchen today and that has to be worth something.

"There's little time for that," Castiel replies. "Both heaven and hell are converging on where you are at this very moment. If you do not leave—"

He raises an eyebrow. "Then we'll be caught in the middle of the final, epic battle?"

"No, Dean," Castiel says, his voice grim. "They will die and you will be taken to be the initiator."

There's a moment of silence as he cards this away with "weird shit" and "only-God-knows." Castiel returns to the table but does not sit. He doesn't take his unblinking gaze off of Dean and it makes Dean sweat a bit. The rustle of feathers grows stronger and Castiel looks even less human to him when he flickers a glimpse in his direction.

"What are you?" he asks, letting this be the deciding factor. "Bobby and Jackson don't trust you and I trust Bobby. Not to mention, Michael mentioned you. Said you do good work." He takes a deep breath and tilts his head up so that their eyes lock again. "Tell me who you are and why I should trust you when I don't even like Michael and I prefer to stick with my friends."

Castiel finally blinks. "Michael has spoken to you?"

"Yeah," he shrugs, "twice. What is he? Who is he? What are you? Tell me or this is over and you can forget about it."

"How could he have touched your mind?" Castiel murmurs to himself. "You must let him enter under your own volition." His brow creases and he says, even softer, "How far are they willing to overstep?"

"Tick-tock, Cas," Dean tells him. "Tick-tock."

"I don't understand."

"You're running out of time to make your argument," Dean clarifies with the tone he uses for the incredibly stupid and small children.

Castiel turns slightly and the rustling sound turns into bursts of color shaped as feathers. A light glow surrounds him. "I am an angel of the Lord, Dean Winchester. I pulled you from the darkness of eternal rest and brought you here to help in the quest to preserve the planet."

"Wait," he holds a hand up before Castiel can continue. "Angel? Seriously? You have to friggin' be kidding me."

"I am not…friggin' kidding," Castiel echoes in a stilted tone. "I am one of God's first children. One of his messengers and warriors."

"And you make a living doing people's taxes?" Dean asks dryly.

Castiel frowns. "My vessel did once. Now, we do not need sustenance or money."

"So, that body's not yours?"

"No," Castiel says, as though it's nothing, as though it's just a fact of life. "My vessel accepted me into his body. It is the rule of the Most High. We must have permission to reside within our hosts."

His natural compulsion to blow Castiel away for possessing a human dies a bit with this statement. Like with everything else, he believes Castiel immediately. Something in his head keeps telling him that Castiel isn't lying, that Castiel's not capable of lying; at least, Castiel's not capable of lying to him.

"Okay. Let's say I accept you're telling the truth," he says, leaning forward so his elbows are on the table. "The world's ending, I'm back to fight the human war, you're an angel, heaven and hell are about to kill Bobby and Jackson, so on. Why is it that the best judge of character I know—that being Bobby—doesn't like you?"

He gets the air of slight discomfort, even if Castiel doesn't show it. Suddenly, he understands how Captain Kirk must've felt every now and again with Spock. "Several months back, there was a battle in which an archangel killed me for insubordination. Since then, they've been under the impression that I have reverted to my old viewpoint of the world."

"Are they wrong to think that?" Dean's staring at the feathers, the colors, as he says this, noting that they vividly resemble Castiel's mood.

"No, they are not," Castiel starts to look more normal. "I allowed them to believe this. It was safer for all involved and the best way I could help."

Yes, he only ever got his GED. Yes, he never applied to college. Yes, his grades sucked generally. No, he's not Sherlock Holmes but he's damn smart in his own right and doesn't need to be led on. "So, you're telling me to trust you, a double agent angel?"

Castiel takes a moment to process this. "Yes, Dean, I am asking you and assuring you that I will do everything in my power to provide safety for you and your friends, and help stop the world from ending even if it means turning against my own kind. Now, please, time is of the essence. Tear down the barriers."

His hunter instincts scream no while this bond of his screams yes. But he says, "Heaven and hell. Are they after me or Bobby and Jackson?"

"You," Castiel does not hesitate. "They can sense and find you. If you were with me, I could've prevented this, fooled them into thinking otherwise. As it stands, they will tear apart the barriers and end your friends to get to you."

"I don't know, Cas, this sounds like a load of bull," he pushes back his seat. "This sounds like an angelic plan to have me do something to let you all back into the house. Once the barriers are down, Bobby and Jackson don't stand a chance."

Castiel leans very close to him, too close, enough to make him pull as far away as he can without wincing. "Then give me the permission to take you so that your friends will stay safe, Dean Winchester. I swear upon my loyalty to my God that I will not force you into any behavior you do not readily choose."

"That's got a lot of holes in it."

"We are out of time, Dean. You must make your decision."

Bobby and Jackson have told him nothing, have sedated him and are clearly afraid of him. They do not trust Castiel or Michael, no doubt, and they have no plans at the moment. Castiel, on the other hand, does not fear his power, has an ace up his sleeve; maybe he is lying, maybe he is not, but in the last five minutes of conversation he has , without hesitation, told Dean almost everything he wanted to know with the promise of more.

"You can take me without removing the barriers?"

Castiel straightens. "Dean, your power far exceeds mine. If your will is to come with me, it can be done without harming the barriers."

"And the threat to Bobby and Jackson will go away?"

"Yes."

"And you'll tell me everything I want to know?"

"Everything within my power to tell."

"And you won't force me to make any choices on sides or wars or letting things in my head?"

"Never, Dean Winchester, you have my word of honor."

He stands up, bites the bullet and bets on his own intelligence. "Then let's blow this joint."

And when his eyes open again, he's standing on the edge of the Grand Canyon with Castiel's hand on his shoulder, staring into the depths of the unknown, hoping that he's made the right decision.


	7. That Time of the Month

**Thanks to everyone for the feedback and sorry that these posts are so unpredictable. As per request, we now move on to what's happening with John and, at some point, what's happening with Sam.

* * *

**

John Winchester never claimed to be sentimental. He's not, by definition, a touchy, feely sort of guy. Most of this comes from being in a marine, the other part comes from finding his wife pinned to the ceiling of his home and watching her burn to death. Both those things created in him a dark gruffness which hides a lot of hurt and scarring. It tends to make him difficult to be around, an ass to talk to, and a shitty father when it comes to traditional comforting, supporting and remembering of national holidays and birthdays. He's just not the guy who's going to express himself and buy Christmas trees and wish his kid good luck before his soccer game. And if people have a problem with it, then they can shove guns up their asses and pull the trigger.

Of course, this mindset came with certain issues in the beginning. One of those was named, is named, Sam Winchester, his little bouncing, baby boy. The second was named, is named, Child Services. Neither Sam nor Child Services understood that what he did was important. One too many days of school skipped and both of them jumped down his throat like they were spelunking. Child Services looked at his sons' attendance records, looked at the bruises decorating them, looked at the strange hospitalizations, looked at his supposed lack of stable work and said, "Sir, we think you should consider seeking medical help or we may need to remove Sam and Dean to a… better suited lifestyle."

He'd fought them. He'd won.

Sam was a totally different bag of wet cats. While Child Services didn't know the whole story, Sam did and he still held the same opinion. This was, of course, because Sam needed more than John could give; he wanted, no, he needed, John would not deny him that, the dad who was home, who said good job when there was an A, who remembered birthdates and play dates and school dates, who wanted to hang up lights on the house when the winter season came about. He held it against John that John couldn't provide it and he searched for something to fill whatever hole had been opened up by John's absence. For a while, Dean fit the role and when Dean wasn't enough, Sam went to college and forgot about them all together.

Now, John Winchester does a shot of Jack; Sam's stumbled back into the game, gained his sea legs and made John's lack of attention look like child's play. But he won't think of that now, not today, not when he's got other things to do. That's right Johnny-boy, store it away, forget about it; forgetting is the easiest part to do when you've screwed up so bad that the banner you've fought under, your wife, would hate you for your actions. He gets off his barstool, tosses down bills to pay for the booze and the tip, and strides out the door to do something he would never have done ten years ago. Or five years ago even.

The parking lot has the Impala even though it should be Sam's car. Sam wouldn't take it, wouldn't sit in it, wouldn't even look at it. The day John barked they had to start moving on became so much like the day Sam announced he was going to college that after Sam stormed out the door, John reeled. And the funny part is, John didn't mean moving on the way Sam thought he had. He slips into the driver's seat, rearranging the rearview mirror so that he can't see any of the backbench. Some stains don't come out right and he can't bear to look at them. Not today.

The funny part is, Sam misinterpreted John this time. Last time, he'd hit pretty close to the mark and that's probably why it John got so angry. Sam, eighteen, impetuous, self-righteous, pinned everything John had done wrong, rubbed it in his face and demanded that he make right. No one in the world enjoys that, much less an ex-marine, current hunter, with a bit of a drinking problem. He kicked Sam out that time because it stung to hear the truth. This time, however, John meant start over, get another chance, make it up to Sam for years of missed opportunities.

Dean had died on them because John couldn't handle himself. His darling boy, Mary's little angel, had gone to the grave in a shitty old cabin because John couldn't break out of his ways; John wanted to fix that somehow and Sam interpreted it as, "Time to forget your brother" and "Time to forget all of his (John's) mistakes" and "Time to stop being a whiny little bitch." He had reason to; every previous time John had demanded he let go, those things had applied and John wasn't the type to change his spots. Still, it's been years, and every time he hears Sam's voice, his heart breaks a little.

He buys a bottle of Jack from a familiar liquor store, smiling at the woman at the counter who smiles back, her left incisor missing.

"That time of the month again, Johnny?" she asks. He hates the way she lisps it out, like they are friends, like she knows him. But he gives her a smile because anything else would be inappropriate.

"Things to do, Phyllis," he tells her so she won't pry into why he buys a bottle of Jack from the same place, same time, every month. It doesn't change the fact that he has to look at her name tag every purchase. "Thanks."

He takes the liquor back to the car in its neat little brown bag and places it reverently on the seat next to him. Once upon a time, he would've opened it and started the boozing as he drives, but the past years have taught him a thing or two about self-control. The car slides into gear seamlessly, though not as seamlessly as it used to, and he drives down the road towards his home away from home. It's late, it's not far and it's strangely comforting considering the connotations of his visit and the place itself; but he figures he emptied it of every ghoul, ghost and goblin ages ago. Anything new gets torched before it has a chance to get malevolent.

He parks outside of the iron gates and tucks the keys in his pocket. There's also a lighter, some fluid, some salt, holy water; these days, he can never be too prepared, even with every protection possible tattooed on his body. With his bottle and a few shot glasses stored in his jacket, he climbs the fence and slides onto the other side. It's not misty or particularly dark in this place; just a bit grubby, non-descript with a tiny house on the edge where the groundskeeper stays to ward off kids playing jokes. The two of them had words long ago, and the man gives John freedom to do as he pleases while John keeps the "impossible" away from the man.

Edgar, he thinks. The guy's name is Edgar.

His destination's at the very edge, far away from the other graves, tiny, inscribed with the words, "Dean Winchester, Loyal Son and Beloved Brother, 1979—2006." He tries not to think of what's actually there most of the time, kind of how he avoids looking at the backseat; it opens up something ugly and festering inside of him that he neither likes nor accepts. So, when he reaches the stone, every month, he settles next to it, legs crossed and opens his bottle of Jack. Then he and Dean split the bottle, shot for shot, him taking one and pouring another onto the ground over his son's grave. Considering his profession, it's a ridiculous sentiment; he knows Dean isn't there, but sometimes, human grief conquers all. And he's been doing this for a long, long time.

Something's wrong. He senses it before he actually reaches the marker and sees it before he's within ten feet. The grave's been disturbed; he can tell by the way the grass sits and the slight tilt to the headstone. His feet carry him faster to his son's side, because, damn it, no one messes with his boys if he can stop it, and his heart leaps into his throat. It's just a body, a dark part says to him. And a naïve part adds, what can they do with a body? Too many things, the hunter whispers, darkly. So many things. You should've burned him when you had the chance.

His gorge rises when he actually lays eyes on the area. The grass isn't brown as he's used to for most reanimations. It has melted, like Astroturf when it meets fire, everything molded and bright green until it looks like something not even related to grass. The headstone's warped out of proportion and the words, so important, have disappeared so now, all it reads is "Dn Wchs" with no dates at all. Trembling, he reaches out to touch the ground and discovers that underneath the ruined foliage is loosely packed earth, as though someone's recently dug.

Someone's stolen his boy; his precious son. And he has a pretty good idea who.

"Singer," a tired voice mutters through the phone as he paces, the bottle open, burning liquid tearing at his throat.

"Where the fuck is he, Bobby?" he demands. "Tell me, or I swear to—"

"Don't you threaten me, John Winchester," Bobby snaps in reply. "What the hell are you talking about?"

"Dean," he hisses in a voice that's frightened even Demons. "Where is my son?"

"You're at his grave," Bobby states, doesn't ask.

"Yes and someone's done the zombie act with him," he snarls it. His heart's breaking because he knows what this means. "Where did you put him, Bobby?"

"Why do you think it was me, John?" Bobby sounds ancient, exhausted.

"Because, you bastard," his heart's in his throat and he shoves it back with the Jack, "because only four people know where Dean's buried. Me, Sam, Jackson and you. I didn't do it. Sam—" He can't finish so he skips. "And Jackson's dead. That leaves you."

There's a brief second of silence, just enough to make him certain, before Bobby says, "Well, John, for starters, Jackson's alive. Been out and about for nearly a year now but staying under wraps. But it wasn't him and it wasn't me either."

"Then who, Bobby? You know who it is."

"It was Castiel who did it," Bobby says it slowly, quietly, in a calm the savage beast manner that pisses him off even more, "under Michael's orders but it was me and Jackson who dug him up."

Castiel, Michael, heaven; he hates all those bastards almost as much as he hated the damn demon. His stomach lurches at the idea of them polluting his boy, bringing him back from whatever peace Dean found, and forcing him into a role. As much as he had sought to get his son back, once the shit really hit the fan, he decided to let Dean stay gone. The last thing Dean needed was to come home to a world that his family helped screw up, especially when his brother's… well… and his dad's on the run. But another part of him feels sick with himself because he knew this day would come, because Castiel had come to him months ago to warn him, and he hadn't listened.

The cell phone creaks under his hand as he clenches his fist. "Tell me where he is."

"We don't know, John," Bobby doesn't hesitate this time. "He's got a whole set of powers and he ran off somewhere. We're—"

"Powers," he interrupts. "What do you mean powers?"

"I mean turning tile to pudding and killing people with his voice," Bobby tells him. "And no idea how to control it. We think—"

"And you let him out on his own?"

"Will you shut up and let me talk?" He does and Bobby continues. "We didn't let him anything. We locked him down tight to keep Michael out of his head and Castiel away from him, and somehow, he jumped ship. Right now, we're trying to track him but John—"

He sits and dumps the rest of the bottle onto the dried out turf. His voice shakes despite his attempts to control it, "My son's alive."

Bobby's voice croaks a bit. "Yeah, Dean's alive."

"My son's alive."

"But he's different," Bobby's tone holds a warning. "He's… I don't know what to tell you John, but he ain't the same kid I knew."

"But he's _alive_," John whispers, as though that word overrides everything else, the powers (like Sam), the zombification (like so many he'd put down), the agenda (which he'd used Dean for under different circumstances) and the missing.

"If what's happened aligns with our worries," Bobby says. "Then he's being prepared to rot as Michael's vessel."

A bitter, slightly hysterical laugh escapes him. "Over my dead body, Bobby."

And he snaps the phone shut. With more confidence and determination then he's felt in years, he returns to the car. Dean paid for his mistakes four years ago and there was nothing he could do to stop it. But he's learned a few things since then and this will not pan out the same way. Just because he, John Winchester, won't agree to end the world as Michael's vessel doesn't mean that Dean Winchester has to. If John has his way, the angel's are going to regret ever daring to use his son against him like this.


End file.
